


bargain (in disguise of a sport)

by kangeiko



Series: pyrrhic victories (things better left unsaid) [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Tony Stark, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Slash, Tony doesn't make anything easy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 18:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko
Summary: Steve has a favor to ask. Tony is willing to help... for a price.





	bargain (in disguise of a sport)

**Author's Note:**

> _"Cards are war, in disguise of a sport." Charles Lamb_

He is seriously considering revoking access to his workshop from, oh, everyone. Not Rhodey, of course. Or Pepper, who has access to pretty much everything. But, yeah, everyone other than Rhodey or Pepper (and he refuses to think why his world has narrowed down to the Avengers, why ‘everyone’ is one amorphous mass including both Vision and Barton who are pretty much on opposite ends of the spectrum for basically _everything_.) “FRIDAY, make a note, dis-aggregate access based on additional variables.”

There is a small pause. “What variables, boss?”

He doesn't know. He doesn't have the time to enumerate all the ways in which he now needs to grade the people in his life, in his space, according to how threatened he feels. “I'll tell you later.” For now, he has more immediate problems. 

One of them is standing in his workshop, in contravention of every expectation of human decency and shame and, and, he's run out of expectations. “FRIDAY, take a note,” he says again, and loses his train of thought. He has his hands on his worktop and it's cool and solid beneath his touch. His grip tightens as his vision swims. 

In some strange sort of way, he's actually feeling marginally better now that there is a physiological reason for his stomach clenching like this. He knows what this is. He's had this before. He knows what's coming. 

It usually starts off with a rushing sound in his ears, his vision graying out in spots. Low blood pressure, his doctor had said, with a touch of wonder in her voice. She had expected his blood pressure to be through the roof, given everything, and it was. Mostly. 

And then, some days. Some moments. His doctor - his _other_ doctor - said that he should sit down until the feeling went away. That he should suck on lozenges if his mouth was dry. That his body would stop doing this, eventually. That he would adapt.

(His cardiologist says the tachycardia is a worry, and gives him beta blockers. His psychiatrist says that the anxiety is a worry, and gives him beta blockers. Whatever it is, the symptoms are the same, and the treatment is the same, and as long Tony has a problem with a name, he can fix it.)

But right now? Right now, it's not really practical to sit, or to reach for a lozenge, or to grab some juice. He can’t even reach for his meds, because he left them in the penthouse. Right now, St- _Rogers_ is in his workshop, announced quietly and without any fanfare by FRIDAY. Tony really would have preferred for this conversation to happen a little later - say, fifty years into the future, with Tony safely dead and buried - but Rogers has never really paid attention to Tony’s preferences on that front. 

“Tony, please,” he says instead, so fucking _gentle_ , as if Tony is some helpless thing cowering in a corner, instead of glaring at him in his own fucking workshop.

“FRIDAY,” Tony says again, and runs out of words. He grits his teeth. 

So there’s no lozenge, there's no juice, there isn't any chair. In fact, there's really nothing he can do except hold on to the edge of his worktable and focus on keeping himself upright. He swallows, dry, and it hurts like sandpaper. “Alright,” he can hear himself say, as if from very far away. “Alright, Rogers. What you're asking is possible, yes. But there's a price for my time these days. Some of us have to pay for the roof over your head, you know. I can't just give away my time and inventions for free. And what you're asking for… it'll cost you.”

Rogers gazes back at him evenly. The balls on the guy, Tony thinks, to come down to Tony’s workshop and ask Tony for _this_. He's not bitter; he can't help feeling just a teensy bit impressed. _If righteousness and cojones are all the world requires of its heroes, no wonder they welcomed him back with open arms._

OK. He's a _little_ bitter. 

“I realize that there is a price, Tony. I'll pay it, whatever it is.”

Maybe a _lot_ bitter because goddamn Rogers and his bullshit confidence. He’ll pay it? _Fine._

The grey recedes a little, his vision creeping back in tiny increments. His grip on the worktop loosens. He can do this. 

He quirks his very best ‘I’m a bigger asshole than you’ smile. “One billion dollars. Half in advance, half on completion.”

Rogers’s eyes widen slightly. Ah, there we go, hadn't expected an _actual_ price, then. Not just one that he can't pay; one that he can't convince others to pay on his behalf, either. Oh, Tony’s not going down the route of having Captain fucking America rob Peter to pay Paul. (Or indebt himself to T’Challa to get this from Tony.) No: with a price this high, there's no hiding it. 

And still. _Still_ Rogers seems determined to pledge himself to deliver the impossible. 

Tony cuts him off with a wave of his hand. (It costs him, because the gray isn't all gone, but he still has his other hand on the edge of the worktop. He can do this. He can.) “Or. You can work it off in trade.”

There go those wide eyes again. “If … if you are implying…” The bastard is _blushing_ for some fucking reason, and Tony can't -

Oh, wait. Huh. An odd feeling when his mind isn't the dirtiest one in the room. “Not _that_ kind of trade, old man. I don't do geriatrics.” Certainly not when he still feels like he's bleeding out and standing upright is his achievement of the day. “No, I'm gonna need a favor. A small one, really.” He shrugs a little. “Call it a balancing of the scales.”

“What is it?” Rogers bites out, his hackles well and truly up. The flush is still there, high up on his cheeks, and for an idle moment Tony wonders if - no. 

He must be imagining things. 

“Now, we all know that I won the lottery when they were handing out brains, but somehow, Cap, you still manage to get people on your side, even if your argument is an entire farm’s worth of manure. I might be a merchant, but then you're a snake oil salesman, peddling your outdated, golly-gee-shucks model of patriotism to the masses.”

“Do you have a point, Tony?” Rogers grits out.

“I do, and my point is this: you might not have the money or the equipment, but you have a knack for getting other people to just _give_ you what you need. So here's my favor, Cap. A small, simple one.” The gray swamps him again, and his grip on the worktop tightens to the point his hands start to cramp. His mouth feels like it is filled with cotton wool and the bitter tang of bile, his tongue moving so lethargically he worries he's slurring his words. “I've tried everything I can think of. All the possibilities I can access legitimately, and some not so legitimately. So now I need someone to work out what other avenues there are. I need someone to find them, and open them up for me.”

Rogers’s gaze is wary. “Avenues for what? If this is about the Accords -”

“This has fuck-all to do with the Accords!” He breathes deep, reaching for calm. “Don't worry. Nothing to do with that. Just a small medical problem. I'm sure Barton mentioned it. Or Wilson, maybe.”

Rogers’s complexion goes from healthy farm-boy to bloodless corpse in a matter of moments. “Rhodes.” His back straightens, as if readying himself for an execution. 

Tony’s vision is almost entirely grey, now, and he can hear his heart thundering in his chest. It's not fast, but it is loud, so loud it almost drowns out the rushing sound in his ears. “The way I see it, your boy - your _brother_ \- has one extra limb on mine. So, yeah. I'll build your beloved murderbot a new arm. Even better than the original. But before I do? Before I lift a goddamn finger?” He lets go of the worktop and forces himself to walk around it, to crowd into Rogers’s personal space. In just his sneakers, he has to look up to make eye contact and he will not back down, he will _not_. “I need to see Rhodey walking. You give him that - you help me put that right - then -” 

It would have been a magnificent speech, sharp and cutting and just on the right side of morally extortionate. It would have been sung of in song and, and, other things you sing, OK, the point is, it was a thing of beauty and it was a bit of a shame that his knees had decided that, nope, they weren't cooperating. 

Really ruins the whole thing a bit if the guy you are attempting to extort has to catch you half-way through your spiel. 

“ _Tony,_?! Tony, look at me, are you OK?” Rogers at least has the courtesy to grimace the moment that inanity leaves his lips. “Stupid question, sorry. Uh… FRIDAY mentioned that you had, uh, medication for your heart. Is it here? Should I get it? Or, some water? Or…” 

He is inches away from wringing his hands in worry, the fucking boy scout, Tony thinks viciously. “Underhanded,” Tony manages after a moment, “trying to blame my favorite girl when I know it was all that traitor Pepper.” 

Rogers grimaces again, looking even more uncomfortable. “Uh. It was actually Rhodes. Ms Potts isn't… she's still not speaking to me.” 

Well, thank God at least one of them had sense. If Tony had listened to his doctors, he would have taken himself off to a nice hotel in Malibu and eaten his own body weight in Valium. 

“I don’t need any medication, and you didn't answer my question,” he demands instead, hating himself a little. He knows it's weak. He's sat on the floor, Rogers carefully keeping him upright, and DUM-E is already wheeling over to try to investigate if he's OK. He has one hand tangled in the soft cotton of Rogers’s T-shirt, and the other is clutching a meaty bicep.

Rogers doesn't look up from where he is pressing his fingers against the pulsepoint on Tony’s neck. He has a fucking _chocolate bar_ in his hands (from where? Tony doesn't have chocolate in his workshop. Has he been carrying it around the entire time?) and he's trying to get Tony to accept it. Because Tony is clearly a child, to be placated with sweets. (Or an invalid, to be distracted with medicines. Either one is unacceptable at this moment.)

Half of him wants to tell Rogers that the tachycardia, the low blood pressure, the presyncope, _all of it_ , is linked to his mental state rather than his physical one. Half of him - the same half, so mad he is almost vibrating - wants to tell him that all he needs to do to make Tony feel better is _fuck off_.

“Rogers. _Rogers_ , goddamit -”

“Yes,” Rogers interrupts him, finally looking him in the eye. “I mean - yes. That -” he swallows. “That seems fair. I'll help with whatever you need. Whatever you want, Tony. Materials, access to scientists, secret research, whatever it is. Just tell me.” 

No.

No no _NO_ he does _not_ want that fucking emotion in Rogers’s voice, he does not want to be dealing with this bullshit! He wants Rogers angry, seething, outraged - hell, he’ll even take the humiliated arousal he saw earlier - over this fucking _understanding_. 

“Yeah, you will,” Tony grits out instead, shoving Rogers away with a Herculean effort and struggling to his feet. His legs feel like putty and he has to grip the edge of the worktop to haul himself upright. “You'll do whatever I fucking want. Because if you don't -”

“No,” Rogers interrupts. He doesn't attempt to reach for Tony again, although he stays close. Close enough to catch him, if Tony should fall. (If Tony's body should betray him again.) “No. Not because of that. Because I want to help.” 

Tony works hard to swallow around the stiffness in his throat. “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he manages. He braces himself against the worktop and concentrates on staying upright. 

“Tony-”

“Close the door on your way out,” he says abruptly, attention back on the worktop screensaver. (Not that Rogers will know it's a screensaver. For all he knows, it's a new weapons system.)

(It's actually a 3D holographic version of Pong. He likes Pong. Pong is playing across his worktop, and it's actually a lot more soothing than it has any right to be.)

He hears Rogers sigh a little as he turns towards the door. “Tony,” Rogers says and then pauses. His whole body is rigid, as if braced for a blow. “Uh… if there isn't anything to be done...”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut and curses the day that Rogers was ever born. “I'm not holding him fucking hostage,” he says wearily, even though he knows he was doing exactly that. Fuck Rogers for calling his bluff. 

Rogers nods. “I have faith in you,” he offers after a moment. He hesitates. “I’ll talk to Rhodes. Get him to bring down your medication and some water.” He does not turn to see Tony’s face at this last betrayal; instead exiting the workshop silently, the doors opening for him just as easily as they had on his way in. 

After a moment, FRIDAY speaks up timidly into the silence. “Boss. Should I call for medical attention?”

The gray on the edge of Tony’s vision recedes by inches as he stares down at the worktop. Tony swipes away the screensaver and in its place materialize a pair of rotating schematics, facing each other like combatants. His notes scroll down the side, prodding into the relevant sections with thin implements. They look like puppets, held up by textual string.

By his side blinks his Starkpad, with a message from Rhodey from ten minutes previously. _Rogers is on his way down. He's gonna ask you about Barnes’s arm. I didn't tell him you'd already started working on it._

In the hologram space, the arm schematic overlaps with the brace schematic and they tangle, helplessly. 

“Boss?”

He leans forward and rests his forehead on his hands.

*

fin

**Author's Note:**

> Why, yes, yes I _am_ trying to get these two to be in the same room without having another goddamn row, even when they both want the same thing. I had no idea it would be this difficult.


End file.
